


First to Feel Like This

by antumbral



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Longing, M/M, Piano, more sweet than bitter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-12
Updated: 2013-06-12
Packaged: 2017-12-14 18:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antumbral/pseuds/antumbral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tamaki and Kyouya in the piano room, after the final episode of the anime. Tamaki tries to come to terms with the idea that he just chose his life in Japan over his mother.</p>
<p>We are bored and pretty<br/>We are bruised and perfect<br/>Caught in the eyes<br/>Of someone who is just like us<br/>We are the center of it all<br/>We are the first to feel like this<br/>         - Jump Little Children</p>
            </blockquote>





	First to Feel Like This

**Author's Note:**

> I'm reposting older work that I've done, so that it will have somewhere to live that's not LJ. This was originally written about five years ago.

“Chopin?” Kyouya asks, entering the third floor music room. His footsteps echo on the tiles, stilted and out of rhythm with Tamaki’s light fingers.  


The music doesn’t pause. “Yes.”  


“Not Mozart?” It’s dark, the fireworks are over, and everyone has gone home. Kyouya knows for a fact that Tamaki drove Haruhi back to her flat, he saw them leave together.   


“I thought that perhaps a change was indicated,” says Tamaki softly. The light through the floor-length windows is dim, he appears in silhouette. A single bubble rises through the fish tank. It’s too dark to see it, but the sound is loud against the soft, complex piano chords. “You guessed the Chopin. Guess which piece it is?”  


Kyouya listens. Tamaki’s head sways with the rhythm. It’s not a terribly complicated piece, for Chopin. There’s something dark to it, minor perhaps. It sounds a little like mourning, and a little like revelations. Chopin has always been Kyouya’s favorite.  


“Not one of the Nocturnes, I think. Raindrop Prelude, in D.” He pushes his glasses further up his nose, but it doesn’t change the view. Tamaki is still incomprehensible, still completely in shadow, and still sitting in the music room long after he drove Haruhi home and ought to be asleep.   


Kyouya feels awkward and too tall. There are no chairs that face the piano bench, nothing that would let him close enough to see Tamaki’s expression. It is crucial that he see; he needs to understand everything that has happened tonight.   


Kyouya crosses the space to the piano -- echoing footsteps -- and stands behind Tamaki, hands on Tamaki’s shoulders. There are lean muscles under the fabric of the simple linen shirt Tamaki wears. He can feel them shift with every arpeggio. The music ends on a few wavering keys, and the silence weighs heavy and fragile between them.   


At last Tamaki exhales, then reaches up and covers one of Kyouya’s hands on his shoulder, pulling him down and to the side. His fingers seem long and impossibly elegant where they wrap around Kyouya’s wrists. He shifts over to make room on the bench, and they sit side by side, facing the keyboard. “It’s after three in the morning,” Kyouya says. The ivory keys gleam in the light from the windows.  


“Choose something, I’ll play it,” Tamaki replies, and Kyouya knows he’s stalling. Tamaki isn’t crying though -- hasn’t cried -- and that’s more than Kyouya was expecting.   


“Mozart. Fantasie in D Minor.” Tamaki loves that song, and Kyouya knows it. It’s one of the ones he played for his mother. Tamaki associates it with her, with light and France and open fields. Kyouya associates it with Tamaki.  


The music begins, smooth and floating as ever. “I’ll never see her again,” Tamaki says after one particularly long scale, quietly, as though he’s testing the words.  


There’s nothing Kyouya can say to make that right. He selfishly wanted Tamaki to stay, but he would not choose such a sacrifice for anyone that he calls friend. He leans to rest his head against Tamaki, just at the swell where his bicep meets his shoulder. It probably makes playing more difficult, but he can’t be bothered to care.  


“Éclair knew where she was,” Kyouya says in the middle of an andante. “If she knew, we’ll find out. We’ll find her,” he says, and means _I’ll find her. I’ll find her for you._  


Tamaki pounds out the last few chords to the composition with more force than strictly necessary, and leaves his fingers on the keys where they finish. The black keys between them seem like gaps in some broad white smile. He turns to rest his nose against Kyouya’s hair, and breathes in deeply. Kyouya watches his fingers flex on the keys, not quite enough to draw sound.  


“Come on,” Kyouya says, rather than face the sort of grief that he is not sure how to repair. He leads Tamaki to the couch and forces him to lay out along it, seating himself on the other end and taking Tamaki’s feet in his lap.   


Tamaki folds an arm behind his head as a pillow and closes his eyes. Kyouya gently removes Tamaki’s shoes from the feet in his lap, dropping first the left then the right to the floor, following them with socks. “Do you think I did right?” Tamaki asks, and flexes his bare toes.   


Kyouya considers how to answer, and wonders what question Tamaki is asking. About his mother, about Haruhi, about returning here after? “I think,” he says at last, “that you should not sacrifice yourself on the altar of others’ happiness. But if you are truly content for your own sake, not for the Club’s or for Haruhi’s or for mine, then yes, I think you did right.” Tamaki’s lips curl slightly. The fish tank bubbles behind them, noise into the stillness.  


For a long moment, neither of them has anything to say. Their conversation is not complete, but beyond the obvious questions lie the difficult ones. Kyouya chooses instead to concentrate on his hands. He kneads into the arch of one foot, pressing slow and repetitive circles into the sensitive skin behind Tamaki’s toes. It doesn’t surprise him that Tamaki’s toes are like his fingers: fine-boned and long. Kyouyo diligently traces the whorls and lines of use across the inward curve of Tamaki’s arches towards his heel.  


Tamaki makes a soft sound of appreciation at the back of his throat, and doesn’t open his eyes. Their silence stretches, insular and growing more intimate each time Kyouya brushes the delicate skin below Tamaki’s ankle. He is careful to use enough pressure not to tickle. His glasses slide down his nose to rest on the tip, and when he next looks up, Tamaki is watching him back. Something soft and dangerous lurks in Tamaki’s eyes.   


“Kyou,” Tamaki says, low and urgent -- not even his full name, just one syllable. Kyouya wonders how many corporate deals have been closed this way -- two people bare to each other in an empty space with wide windows, no formalities left to hold between them.  


As though drawn by strings, Kyouya shifts on the couch to stretch himself out over Tamaki. He can feel Tamaki down the full line of his body: flat stomach, bony hips, gentle brush of bare feet against his own clothed ankles. He senses the pressure of movement when Tamaki inhales, the flex of stomach when he exhales.   


He props himself up on his elbows to better see Tamaki’s face. Tamaki’s eyes are tired and half-closed, miles away from the wide-eyed seducer that enchanted the student body. He bites his lip and takes a deep breath. Kyouya can feel it press their chests together tightly, and Tamaki rocks his hips up in a tiny motion that might have been mistaken for unconscious if Kyouya didn’t know him so well.   


He leans in, but instead of the kiss Tamaki is expecting, he angles Tamaki’s head up to nuzzle the sensitive place where his ear meets his jaw line. “You drove Haruhi home,” he says, almost accusing, “but here you are,” and punctuates that statement with a subtle grind of his hips to emphasize the point -- Tamaki is _here_ , beneath his body and wrapped close in a way that is unforgiveable between mere friends.   


Tamaki’s left hand finds the small of his back and rucks up the shirt there to expose skin. His fingertips against Kyouya’s spine are shocking, electric against the fine hairs. They trace downwards and tuck very slightly under the waist of his pants, resting. His right hand reaches up to remove Kyouya’s glasses.  


“Was I wrong to stay?” Tamaki murmurs, turning his head so that his lips brush Kyouya’s cheek. “Am I unwelcome, Kyou?” His hand on Kyouya’s back flexes firmly downwards, belying his words. Tamaki has always been confident of his welcome, here most of all.   


“No,” Kyouya breathes in the scent of warm skin. “No.”   


Kissing is as simple as turning his head to meet Tamaki’s mouth. Tamaki is still and trembling –- he’s holding his breath, Kyouya realizes –- so their first kiss is almost laughably chaste, more an exchange of exhalations than anything else. Tamaki makes a soft, needy sound in his throat, and Kyouya abruptly finds the limit of his control.  


He tightens his hands hard into Tamaki’s hair, jerks his mouth closer, and kisses him with every ounce of possessiveness that he can muster. The irony isn’t lost on him that the last time someone lay beneath him was Haruhi at the beach; now he struggles to erase her from Tamaki’s mouth and arms and memory.   


Their third and fourth kisses are gentler, more sure, learning the shapes of each other’s mouths, hands, faces. The palm that isn’t wandering his spine comes up to cup Kyouya’s face, and this is familiar. He’s seen Tamaki kiss countless numbers of girls -- tilt their faces and murmur reassurances, slant their inexperienced bodies more closely into his own. He knows the rhythm of Tamaki’s kisses: soft pecks; delicate, kittenish licks; shallow, careful hint of teeth for the most daring ones. These kisses are not like that, though, and the contrast shocks Kyouya.  


Tamaki presses his hand to the line of Kyouya’s jaw and forces his head to the best angle, licks into his mouth hard and frantic. He’s never kissed a girl this way, Kyouya is sure of it. This way, Tamaki kisses with his whole body: mouth and shoulders and hips and hands all desperate for as much contact as he can gain. Tamaki kisses like he wants to imprint himself onto Kyouya. It’s raw and blatantly sexual, honest in a way that Tamaki never manages as a Prince or a host.   


Kyouya pulls at the linen of Tamaki’s shirt, hears the seams strain at the force of it but doesn’t care. He wants Tamaki bare-chested, and Tamaki lifts his arms to assist. The shirt lands in the open piano, but Kyouya doesn’t notice; he’s too busy squinting at the buttons of his own costume’s elaborate blouse. Tamaki slaps his hands away and unfastens them more quickly, frowning at the lace.   


Kyouya can’t keep his hands from wandering as Tamaki works. His vision is fuzzy without the glasses, but it doesn’t matter when he can touch. There’s just so much _skin_ : sharp collarbones and slim hips and shoulders that have begun to take on the muscle of manhood but are still almost too wide for his body. Tamaki grunts with frustration at the buttons. Kyouya bites at his earlobe and tugs just because he can, because Tamaki is awkward and skinny and perfect.   


When they’re both shirtless Kyouya flops backward on the couch and pulls Tamaki over him, fits his hands over the jutting angles of Tamaki’s hip bones and pulls him down to grind into his pelvis. Tamaki shivers and curses, melodically low and deeper than Kyouya’s heard his voice go before. There’s sweat across his lips, Kyouya can taste the salt when Tamaki presses harsh, gasping kisses into his mouth.   


They aren’t naked, not really. Kyouya is still wearing the brocaded, skin-tight trousers of his French courtier’s uniform, and Tamaki is wearing the slacks he changed into afterwards. It doesn’t make a difference though, and Kyouya knows it sharply: this is sex. They’re fucking. The vulgarity of the thought is simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. He never meant to go this far, certainly never meant to seduce his best friend; he never set out with the thought of claiming Tamaki in this way.   


Kyouya can’t bring himself to panic, though, can’t even really bring himself to care. Nothing in his life has felt more natural than digging his fingers into Tamaki’s thighs to pull him closer, harder, faster. He hopes that he leaves bruises, imagines sucking a mark just below Tamaki’s ear so that Haruhi could notice. Tamaki rubs his face against Kyouya’s chest, hot and liquid slick above him, muttering obscene things and little breathy pants. Before this, Kyouya could define arousal academically, but nothing has prepared him for how absolutely right Tamaki feels against him.   


He comes abruptly, shocked at the intensity of it. Tamaki stares down at him, luminously pale in the dark. His chest is heaving, and even without the glasses Kyouya can tell that his pupils are blown out huge: a thin rim of violet around the black.   


Kyouya reaches up, cups Tamaki’s jaw and runs his thumb downwards over Tamaki’s lips. Tamaki licks out softly at him, but his hand continues downward: chest, stomach, crotch. Tamaki is desperately aroused, so Kyouya grips him there –- hard -- and that’s all it takes. Tamaki’s eyes widen, shut briefly, then force open again. His stomach contracts and his head goes back with the force of the orgasm, and Kyouya knows that he will always see Tamaki like this in his dreams: straddled above his hips, openmouthed, throat bared and taut. Tamaki utterly open: not a hint of pretense or teasing. Completely vulnerable, and the most beautiful thing Kyouya has ever seen.  


Tamaki collapses boneless on top of him, and it takes a kind of noble determination to push him gently aside, go gather new trousers for them both and a towel to clean up with. When he returns, Tamaki is curled up on his side on the couch, watching Kyouya move about the room with the lazy curiosity of a sated cat. Stripping Tamaki like this to change pants is an exercise in new intimacy: soft, reverent touches, and Tamaki’s hand in his hair comfortingly to steady him. They both change, and Kyouya settles back down on the couch, pulling Tamaki back on top and tucking Tamaki’s head under his chin.  


The couch is plushy and comfortable enough for sleep. No one will be at school later in the day until the clean-up crews arrive in the afternoon since it’s the weekend after festival. Tamaki’s breathing is soft and even against his throat, and Kyouya thinks defiantly that the rest of the world -- _families, Haruhi, corporate politics_ \-- can just wait for a space of hours. What he has here is right. The rest will work itself out.


End file.
